


heartbreak warfare

by strawberryfinn



Category: One Direction (Band), X Factor RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Assassins & Hitmen, Explicit Language, Gen, M/M, Multi, Murder, Other, Sexual Content, Unrequited Love, Violence, Weapons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-26
Updated: 2012-10-26
Packaged: 2017-11-17 01:29:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/546072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberryfinn/pseuds/strawberryfinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Harry’s trembling, quaking, fingers tilting the gun harder into his skin, because</i> I love you <i>belongs to Niall.</i></p><p>Or the one where Harry, Zayn, and Louis are hitmen who just want to set the world on fire, Liam gets in the way, and Harry makes the mistake of falling in love with Niall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	heartbreak warfare

**Author's Note:**

  * For [trespresh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/trespresh/gifts).



Harry wakes up alone.

 

 

His fingers curl into the sheets beside him, and he lifts his head off the mattress. His curls of mahogany hair are disheveled, and he wipes the fatigue from his eyes as he glances over at the unoccupied side of the bed. There's a slight indent in the bed, rumpled sheets, and he lets something akin to a smile rest on his lips before he swings out of bed, grunting a bit as his bare feet come into contact with the cold, wooden floor.

 

 

The bathroom is warm, humid, with condensation glued to the mirror, the shower curtain wet. Tiny droplets of water trickle off the curtain onto the floor, and Harry wipes a circle with his sleeve onto the mirror to study his face. Dark, velvet green eyes stare back at him, distinguishing dimples, full curls of hair over expressive eyebrows.

 

 

He feels hands wrap up around his waist, a head hook over his shoulder.

 

 

“Morning, babe,” Niall whispers, Irish accent slipping into his voice, and Harry can't help but smile as he leans back, pressing a kiss to Niall's damp forehead, ruffling the clumps of wet, dirty blonde hair. He lets himself breathe in the scent of Niall's shampoo, fresh, clean, scent of clovers, and he slips out of Niall's grasp to pull the other man into his arms.

 

 

“You're up early,” he notes, voice rough and low with sleep. He shakes out the fatigue though, because he's getting an assignment today, and he needs to be fully attentive.

 

 

“Couldn't sleep,” Niall mumbles, his lips pressed against Harry's chest, necking Harry's collarbone. He mouths the sensitive skin, before tilting his head upwards to meet Harry's lips. “Haven't been able to lately.”

 

 

Harry hums sympathetically, slipping his hand to the small of Niall's bare back. He noses Niall's neck protectively, skirts his fingers over Niall's skin. “Breakfast?”

 

 

Niall nods and smiles, hesitant, and Harry takes it as a yes.

\-------x---------

Zayn's making a fry-up when they arrive in the kitchen. Harry can smell avocado, tomato, onions, sizzling eggs. A mountain of bacon and sausage lie on a plate in the center of the table next to a tower of scones and toast. Harry sits down at his regular seat, greeted by a steaming mug of tea that sits ready for him. He frowns a bit, realizing they've forgotten to make one for Niall, who slips into the seat next to him.

 

 

He motions to the mug, asking if Niall wants it, but the blonde shakes his head no, so Harry tucks in. It's chai—his favourite, and he thanks Zayn.

 

 

“Lou made it,” Zayn says off-handedly, an afterthought as he slides a plate of hot eggs in front of Harry. He runs his fingers through his black hair, expressive dark eyebrows knitting in his forehead, amber eyes grim as usual. “How are you feeling, Harry?”

 

 

“Good,” Harry replies. He slides the plate of eggs over to Niall while grabbing a scone for himself. “How was your assignment yesterday?” he inquires, as he slaps jam onto the buttered scone. “And Louis, thanks for the tea.”

 

 

“You're welcome,” Louis responds, from where he's been studying the daily paper. He folds it, placing the crisp, black and white pages onto the table before he grins unexpectedly, smile stretching from ear to ear, white teeth sharp and glinting bright—stretched too far on the contours of his face—dangerous, like a _shark._ “Assignment went well. Target was Sheeran—big, gingery, squishy bloke, so not too pretty—but it was still fun to watch him beg.”

 

 

“You're sadistic,” Zayn scoffs from where he's assembling a sausage biscuit. He glances over at the eggs. “Harry, you're not going to eat those?”

 

 

Harry's about to respond when Louis interrupts, huffing as he runs a hand through his copper-coloured hair, blue eyes flashing dangerously. “Funny you should say that _I'm_ sadistic. Not everyone is an artist like you, Malik.”

 

 

“I have class,” is all Zayn says, and he stabs a slice of avocado off the plate holding the eggs. Harry looks over at Niall in question, but Niall just nods his consent, fingers playing with the edges of his frayed t-shirt—Harry's shirt, that is, a white v-neck that fits loosely on him, bagging around his slender frame, low enough to show his collarbones.

 

 

“Class, my ass.” Louis stands up and stretches, cracking his back then his knuckles. “As long as you get the job done, why does it matter _how_ you do it?”

 

 

Harry thinks about them momentarily, analyzing their tactics. 

 

 

He can see Louis, clear as day, with the target Ed Sheeran in the bathroom. The redhead sobbing hysterically as he slammed his body against the bathroom door, willing it to stay locked. Louis breaking his way in easily, his eyes glinting menacingly as he cornered the man, forcing him to beg for his life, groveling at Louis's feet. How Louis had trailed the sharp, glinting knife teasingly over Sheeran's chin, coyly, nearly flirtatiously, making the target think that he'd managed to convince Louis otherwise. Louis gave him just enough freedom, enough trust and hope, before breaking the skin, piercing it lightly—just enough to draw blood. And Sheeran had shuddered in his grasp before Louis sliced his jugular vein. Louis is the killer people see in movies; insane, dizzying eyes, a heartless, duplicitous smile. He likes to toy with his targets, make them unravel, so he can play with their emotions. Perhaps a bit sadistic, yeah, but it gets the job done.

 

 

Zayn, on the other hand, works like he's dancing a tango, slow and sensual, or creating a masterpiece, spilling paint over a blank canvas. His soundtrack is a slow Spanish song, low and predatory, but _subtle._ It's messy, but constrained, every movement calculated and accounted for. Harry listens as he divulges the story of his targets—Cher Lloyd and Olly Murs. Lloyd and Murs had been snogging heatedly, Zayn recounts, hands all over one another, Murs's fingers laced in Lloyd's dark, tousled hair. And Zayn had swept in, almost comically, slipping a cord around Murs's neck, and strangling him with one fell swoop, watching as Murs struggled in his grasp. Lloyd had taken off running, lipstick-red mouth screaming for help. She'd almost managed to convince herself she'd escaped—that was, at least until the bullet from Zayn's gun arced upward, smoothly into the sky before hitting her in the back, right where he'd aimed.

 

 

Zayn finishes telling his story, and Louis fakes a bored yawn, but anyone can tell he's impressed. Louis glances over at Harry. “You think you're ready for a new assignment, Harry?” Zayn studies Harry, eyes almost honey-coloured, like he cares, but Harry knows better.

 

 

“Yeah, I'm ready,” he answers finally, words slipping out unwillingly, like they're colliding into one another like boxcars.

 

 

Louis smirks triumphantly, crows, “Finally, Harry, you're back in the game!” He claps Harry on the shoulder as he hands him a thick manilla folder, and Harry fights the urge to flinch. “This one should be easy, Hazza—very straight-forward to warm you up before you jump back into the game, eh?”

 

 

Harry can feel Niall's eyes on his face, persistent, questioning, searching for answers, and he resolutely keeps his gaze on Louis. “Yeah, sounds good.”

 

 

“Alright, Harry's back!” Louis crows, sounding too excited, too eager.

 

 

Zayn looks at Harry, cryptically, and Harry feels something shift under his skin, slimy, uncomfortable.

 

 

“I've got to go,” he says, standing up abruptly. Niall stands up next to him, fingers sliding into the pockets of his dark grey sweatpants, heading towards the door without saying a word to Louis or Zayn. “Thanks for breakfast.”

 

 

Zayn sighs, running his fingers through his dark quiff before reaching for the untouched plate of eggs. He scrapes them, sunny-side up into the rubbish bin, where the yolks explode and stain the side of the white plastic trashbag golden.

 

 

_Like art,_ Harry thinks, fleetingly. He follows Niall's retreating form out of the kitchen, the manila folder clutched in his hand, heart beating louder than he'd like to admit.

\-------x---------

“Niall, you alright?” Harry asks, as Niall clambers into the seat next to him, buckling in his seatbelt. He reaches a hand over to squeeze Niall's knee, and Niall glances at him, something a bit off in his expression, but as soon as Harry realizes it, it's gone.

 

 

“Yeah, 'm just tired.” Niall yawns then, and Harry focuses on the pink of his tongue, his lips, the rough edges of his teeth. How his eyes scrunch up at the corners, the purple stippled under his eyes.

 

 

“You didn't eat.” It's not a question, Harry saw the eggs go into the rubbish bin.

 

 

“Not really hungry,” Niall mumbles, before turning over to glance out the window. His expression is passive, a bit defensive maybe as he folds his arms over his chest. “Wasn't really in the mood for eggs.”

 

 

“Zayn could have fixed you something else,” Harry starts, but Niall yawns again, and Harry grins fondly, eyes still concerned as he brushes a bit of hair back from Niall's forehead. “You've lost a bit of weight, haven't you?”

 

 

“I'm okay,” Niall says, eyes bleary, as Harry wonders when he got so thin. Niall's always been slender, wonderfully pale, but he seems different now, more vulnerable. “I'll just eat something later.”

 

 

“Okay,” Harry says, leaving it at that. He shoves his keys into the ignition, letting the rumble of the engine wash over him. “Catch some sleep, k, babes? I'll wake you up when we get home.”

 

 

“Mm,” Niall mutters, and he's curled up into the side of the cushion, head nodding against the car window.

 

 

“I don't like worrying about you.” Harry's voice is cautious, uncharacteristically gentle, hinting that this relationship might be more than he's willing to admit.

 

 

“I'm fine,” Niall answers groggily, and Harry tries to convince himself it's the truth.

\-------x---------

Liam Payne is a successful accountant for the wealthiest hotel owner in the United Kingdom. He's a people-pleaser, intelligent, well-dressed, well-spoken. According to his file he is twenty-five years old—the same age as Harry. He has a square face and deep set brown eyes and generic brown hair cut close to his head, and Harry can read him like an open book.

 

 

He studies the face in the picture, a crisp headshot for a business portfolio no doubt. Liam is a victim who will cry, beg—while futilely continuing to struggle to keep his composure—and Harry can't do messy, so he decides he'll take Liam out from a rooftop. A quick, miniscule bullet to the neck before he slips off unnoticed, back into the shadows.

 

 

Zayn and Louis are right. Liam Payne is a simple job—this should be a piece of cake.

 

 

At least that's what Harry tells himself as he washing his face with trembling fingers. He walks over to his closet and slides his gun into the waistband of his trousers, the metal cold and somehow unfamiliar against the line of his stomach.

 

 

_I'll quit,_ he promises himself like he has for the past few months. _This is my last assignment, I'll quit. I'll quit this job and Niall and I will settle down and have a simple life._

 

 

He knows he's lying to himself, that he'll never escape this lifestyle. It's embedded, ingrained in him, etched into his soul, but sometimes he lets himself believe. It's dangerous, he knows, treacherous, traitorous thoughts like these, but he likes the idea of it sometimes. Not having to lie to Niall about where he's been, what he does for a living, why sometimes he comes back shaky and morose and doesn't let Niall touch him.

 

 

As he dries his face with a washcloth, he hears Niall shift in his sleep in the bedroom, soft snores filling the air. He's acutely aware of something curled up in the pit of his belly—a feeling that he hasn't felt in a long time, but still recognizes even though he'd never admit it. _Guilt._

\-------x---------

Harry's been watching Liam Payne for two hours, thirty-seven minutes, and forty-one seconds at this point. He's nestled under the canopy of the veranda. Liam Payne has spent the last two hours, thirty-seven minutes, and forty-one seconds sitting idly at a small, secluded table—the one hidden by the large tree, leaves and branches painting shadows on his face.

 

 

Liam Payne is a creature of habit, Harry decides. Liam Payne is drinking the same Spanish latte with non-fat milk Harry's seen him order for the past five days. He's wearing the same brand of dress pants with a clean leather belt, white button-up without any wrinkles. Liam Payne's flat is probably immaculate with hardwood floors and the food in his refrigerator is probably all green. Liam Payne is the face that you'd see of a hard-working corporate worker, who breathes ambition. Who's tired of being holed up in a cubicle, and well... he might make it.

 

 

He looks harmless, Harry thinks, as he watches Liam Payne flip past another page in the textbook he's reading while he simultaneously answers emails on his open laptop. Too bad he has to die.

 

 

Harry's never questioned his orders. He tries to take his targets out, swiftly, easily, and picks up his payment in cash. He doesn't get off on cries and blood like Louis does, he finds making a masterpiece of his killings like Zayn does a frivolous use of time. He thrives on subtlety. Harry's kills are always clean, and he slides away, invisible, while the world falls apart behind him.

 

 

He raises the gun, eyes zeroed in on Liam Payne's neck. He can see the milk chocolate-coloured birthmark at the base of Liam Payne's neck, his clean-shaven cheeks, the solidness of his body. His fingers curl around the familiar trigger, ready to pull when he suddenly feels hands he knows on his arm, familiar fingers wrapping around the barrel of the gun.

 

 

If Harry hadn't been trained on these scenarios, he might have screamed.

 

 

Instead, he looks up, mouth slackened slightly with surprise when he realizes it's Niall.

 

 

Niall stares at him, unnerving cyan eyes radiating disappointment and a bit of fear that Harry hates. He hates it when Niall worries about him, fears him, makes him feel like a monster. He hates feeling things that he can't control, unchecked, spiraling emotion. It's dangerous.

 

 

“Ni, I gotta do this,” he mumbles, refusing to meet Niall's gaze. He jerks the gun roughly out of Niall's grasp, hands now shaking as he targets Liam Payne again. He swallows hard, every movement jerky and unnatural now, feeling completely out of his element when he's done this hundreds of times before. He tenses, conscious of Niall's searching gaze.

 

 

He's about to pull the trigger when Niall's arm rests on his, desperately, unyielding.

 

 

And he can't.

\-------x---------

“Christ, Harry!” shouts Zayn, his voice louder than normal, antsy, a bit anxious. He stands up immediately, looking dark and formidable, a tower of black in his dark trousers and leather jacket. “What the hell are you doing?”

 

 

Harry lets go of Liam Payne, slipping his hands out from under the target's armpits. Niall stands behind him, like a shadow, nearly invisible, but Harry can feel Niall's hand pressed reassuringly against his back.

 

 

“You couldn't just do the damn job?” Zayn blusters on, as Louis steps up from the couch and heads purposefully over to the target. Harry glances down at Liam Payne, sees the harsh red gash on his head from where Harry clubbed him with the handle of his gun. Liam Payne's forehead is split, bloody, seeping into his cropped hair.

 

 

Liam Payne moans in agony, fingers clenched and claw-like in anguish, and Harry feels Niall's fingers start running small circles on his back.

 

 

Zayn and Louis are both moving now, Zayn's head bowed in disappointment, Louis taking no measures to hide his obvious disgust. Harry watches as they lift Liam Payne off the hardwood floor, easily, like he's a pillow, bodies in tune as they walk into the kitchen, every movement calculated, steely. 

 

 

Harry watches them throw Liam Payne onto the stove. Louis peels a sock off his foot, rolls it into a ball. He slugs Liam hard in the nose—Harry hears the bones crunch—and stuffs his sock into Liam's bloodied mouth. Zayn flips on the fire. 

 

 

Harry watches as Liam Payne thrashes under Louis and Zayn's firm grips, how Louis puts all of his weight on Liam's shoulders, how Zayn holds down his kicking, struggling legs, his face impassive and devoid of any feeling. Liam Payne screams into the makeshift gag, the sound muffled, his entire body rippling, fighting with impressive fervor, shrieking in agony.

 

 

Harry watches as they break Liam Payne, incinerate his spirit, while Niall stands next to him and holds his hand, blue eyes insistent, boring into Harry's soul. Lets Niall say _I know you, you're better than this_ without uttering a word.

\-------x---------

Liam Payne looks like he's been dragged through the nine circles of Hell and back. Bruises flower every inch of his skin, mottled black and purple and blue. His lip is split, nose is broken, swollen, steadily dripping blood onto his bare chest. His white button-up is ripped, shredded, now stained red, singed black at parts, buttons missing. He's tied to a chair, thick metal chains restraining him, digging into his sore, lacerated flesh.

 

 

Liam Payne gargles something nonsensical, head lolling down towards his chest, a clot of blood sliding out of his mouth onto his tanned skin as Harry watches.

 

 

He sees Louis out of the corner of his eye, walking up brusquely, shoving a gun into his hands and forcing Harry's fingers around the handle. 

 

 

“Look,” Louis spits, and his voice is angry, furious, his teeth bared and vicious like a hyena. “Zayn and I fixed him up nice for you. All you have to do is _finish the job._ ”

 

 

“Come on Harry,” Zayn says, voice low, less fervent, less _crazy_ than Louis, but still determined. “The least you can do is put the poor bastard out of his misery.”

 

 

Zayn's lips are pulled in a tight line—he doesn't like this, Harry knows. There's nothing artistic or remotely pretty about the uneven bruising on Liam's skin, the way his skin is singed through, the way blood pours out of every orifice in his body. Zayn's jobs are more like Harry's usually, clean, simple, effortless, while Louis gets off on his targets begging for mercy, revels in their screams. Louis's in his element, while Harry and Zayn are uncomfortable—though they'd never admit it.

 

 

Harry raises the gun, finger on his trigger—eyes drilling in on Liam Payne tied in front of him. Liam Payne strapped into the chair, every breath a labor. He'll make things easier for Liam Payne, put him out of his misery as Zayn puts it—take care of him. He's about to press down when—

 

 

—Niall steps in front of the target, blocking Liam Payne from Harry's vision. His expression is grim, but determined. He doesn't say anything, he just _stands_ there, a challenge, a barrier. He stands there, still, protecting the poor bloke behind him.

 

 

Harry can hear Zayn asking him what he's waiting for, can hear Louis yelling at him, voice getting more and more high-pitched as he gets more and more impatient.

 

 

“Get _on_ with it, Harry!” Louis shrills, blue eyes manic, face red. “Finish the job! He's right _there!_ ”

 

 

He feels Louis's hand wrap around his own, Louis's fingers pushing Harry's finger-pads down on the trigger before he starts, pushes Louis in the chest, shoving him roughly to the ground.

 

 

“What do you want me to do?” Harry screams, gesturing to Niall, because can't they _see?_ Why aren't they yelling at Niall? Niall's getting in the way of everything. How can Harry shoot Liam with Niall in the way? Why aren't they screaming at Niall?

 

 

“It's easy, Harry, _kill him!_ You've done it hundreds of times—what is it about this target that makes it any different?” Louis shouts, and he pushes himself off the floor, shoving a finger accusingly into Harry's chest.

 

 

“I can't kill him with Niall standing there!” Harry retorts, fury building up in his body because is Louis fucking _mental?_ How can Louis and Zayn be so nonchalant—what the fuck is their problem—how can he shoot Liam Payne with Niall defending him, so idiotically courageous, with his own body. “Niall, get the _fuck_ out of the way!” he roars, anger coursing through his veins, thrumming in his bloodstream as Niall resolutely refuses to budge.

 

 

The silence is deafening. 

 

 

Harry's acutely aware of the drip of Liam Payne's blood, pooling in the pockets and curves of his shirt and the ridges of his chest. He can hear Louis's heavy breathing, the grit of Zayn clenching his jaw. Niall, for his part, doesn't say anything. He just stands there, hands gripped at his sides, chin tilted stubbornly upwards, eyes open and full and defiant as they rest evenly on Harry's face. Liam Payne lets out a pained groan through his gag, and Harry zeroes in on it, wondering about the immensity of agony he must be in right now.

 

 

“What are you talking about?” falters Louis, sounding suddenly distressed, resolve shattered. “What... what are you talking about, Harry?”

 

 

“What do you mean _what am I talking about?_ ” Harry blusters furiously, heatedly, green eyes angry, flashing like polished emeralds. “He's right there—what's wrong with you, don't you see him? Niall, get _out_ of the way, do you want to die?”

 

 

“Shit,” mutters Zayn, emerging from the shadows and into the dim lighting provided by the sole yellow lamp above. His dark eyebrows are knit in his forehead, hands buried deep in the pockets of his dark leather jacket. “Hell, I thought he was ready. I thought we were over this shit.”

 

 

“Ready for what?” Harry says, voice escalating in pitch, because _what are they talking about?_ “Over _what?_ ”

 

 

“Harry, where's Niall?” Zayn asks instead, expression cryptic, unreadable. His dark hair falls across his face, and he flips it up impatiently. “Harry, where is Niall?”

 

 

Harry feels something build up in him, and even he's surprised when he starts laughing. The giggle bubbles up in his chest, pours itself past his lips, and he's laughing so hard he's near tears. “He's right there,” he says helplessly, pointing at Niall, because is Zayn _blind?_ Niall's there, face impassive like stone, blocking Harry from Liam Payne with his own body, and there are lives on the line, and Zayn wants to play _I Spy?_

 

 

“Niall's not there,” Louis bursts impatiently, tone clipped. He tears at his hair in frustration, disturbing the waves of brown sugar coloured hair. “Are you mental, Harry?”

 

 

“Stop talking about him like he can't hear you.” Harry manages to stop laughing to glance heatedly at Louis. “Don't be a dick, Louis. I care about him.”

 

 

“ _Look_ at me.” Louis ignores Harry's statement, pulls Harry to face him, the gun still heavy in Harry's hand. “Look at me, Harry. Niall is _not_ there.”

 

 

“Stop it,” Harry deadpans, incredulity running through his eyes. “It's not fucking funny, Louis. Stop it.”

 

 

“I'm not being funny.” Louis yanks the gun out of Harry's fingers, his entire body trembling with rage? Disbelief? Harry can't tell anymore. “Niall's _dead_ , Harry. You _killed_ him-”

 

 

“Louis,” Zayn cuts him off, tone warning, but Louis can't be stopped at this point.

 

 

“You killed him, Harry. Niall's _dead_ and you need to start believing that. You've gone fucking mental,” Louis yells, his voice growing louder and louder with every word. “You killed him, Harry, and ever since, you've just been this fucking mess, and Zayn and I are sick and _tired_ of cleaning up after you!” 

 

 

He stops, blue eyes ablaze, and Harry feels his hand clench into a fist as he aims to punch Louis, punch that stupid expression off his face because _Niall is standing right there, what the fuck is his problem_ when he feels hands on his arms, pulling him back away from Louis.

 

 

“Get off me!” Harry snarls, teeth snapping ferociously at Zayn who's manhandling him to the side. “Get off—Louis, _don't!_ ”

 

 

Louis's raised the gun, aiming straight at Niall, who's still standing in front of Liam Payne.

 

 

The hysteria is screaming in Harry's veins, and he's shrilling. “Louis, _don't!_ Niall, _move_! Don't be a bloody _martyr-_ ”

 

 

Louis narrows his eyes in determination, and Zayn's restraining Harry with a vice-like grip, ignoring Harry's flailing, clawing fingers, his desperate struggle to escape. Harry watches in horrified fascination as Louis's fingers tighten around the trigger and hold down.

 

 

The bullet whips through the air, and Harry watches as it hits Liam Payne in his bare chest, slices through his skin. Harry watches as Liam Payne's eyes screw up in agony, as he moans, and then watches as Louis pulls the trigger a second time. He hears the death rattle in Liam Payne's throat, sees Liam Payne's head jerk back before lolling uselessly to the side.

 

 

And Niall?

 

 

He's disappeared.

\-------x---------

Harry throws open the door of his flat, heart beating rapidly. Tears prick the corners of his eyes and the world is spinning madly around him and everything's foggy like he's looking through a sheet of jello. He feels nauseous, like he might be sick any moment, and he can't help the immense sigh of relief that advances through him when he sees Niall sitting on the couch.

 

 

“You...” Harry manages, before simply leaning forward, pulling Niall towards him without another word. He curls his arms around Niall's shoulders, runs his fingers through soft blonde hair. He can feel himself shaking against Niall's chest, tremors spread evenly over his body. “God Niall, Louis said you were dead.”

 

 

Niall doesn't answer, just wraps his hands around Harry's torso, letting Harry breathe in his scent, press impossibly relieved kisses to his forehead.

 

 

When Harry lets go, eyes shining with unshed tears, he studies Niall. Niall's standing still, face emotionless, and Harry tenses.

 

 

“What's wrong, babes?” he asks softly, reaching out to touch Niall's cheek. Niall steps back, evading contact, and Harry drops his arm defeatedly to his side.

 

 

“I'm dead, Harry,” Niall says, and there's nothing fickle in his voice. He radiates truth, genuity, and Harry struggles to breathe. “I'm only here because you want me to be.”

 

 

“What do you mean?” Harry splutters. “What do you mean?”

 

 

“I'm dead, Harry.” Niall's answer has an air of finality, grave staunchness that Harry finds unforgiving. “I'm dead, Harry. You killed me.”

\-------x---------

The manila folder is thick and heavy and fat in his hands, and he tastes bitter disbelief as he glances down at the picture clipped in the file before he whips his eyes up to stare at Louis and Zayn.

 

 

“This isn't fucking funny,” he spits, voice stormy and furious, mind whirling with adrenaline. “This is a fucked up joke.”

 

 

Zayn glances at the ground apologetically, forehead lined with distress, as Louis reaches out gently, brushing a hand over Harry's arm.

 

 

Louis sighs, and says, “He knows, Harry. He knows what we do, he knows you killed Josh. He knows now, Harry, and we can't have that. You, more than anyone, have to know that.”

 

 

Harry's mouth feels dry like sandpaper, and his tongue is huge and formidable in his mouth. He swallows hard, searching desperately for a retort he knows doesn't exist.

 

 

“He has to go, Harry. We're sorry, but you know it's true.”

\-------x---------

Every step is like dragging his feet through cement. The soles of his shoes are weighed down with the weight of the world, and his mind screams at him to stop, but his body is a traitor and it keeps moving.

 

 

Raw determination courses in his veins, the fear, the inherent betrayal screaming _you always knew this couldn't last_ bullet through his soul, forcing him to continue.

 

 

He slips his key into the door, opening it quietly, and flinches when he hears Niall singing, soft Spanish words spilling into the atmosphere around him. _Que no tengo miedo de decirle que la quier... dile que no la puedo olvidar._ There's the sizzling sound of food being prepared, and Harry closes his eyes for a few seconds, allowing himself to bask in the familiarity. 

 

 

“Harry? That you? You're back early?” Niall's voice is soft with adoration, and Harry throws up a barrier because he knows none of this is true. Niall knows. He knows the truth now, and he won't keep acting forever.

 

 

Harry treads to the kitchen, studies Niall who's facing the stove as he slips eggs onto a plate next to a side of avocado. He's wearing a frayed pair of boxers and one of Harry's shirts—Niall's favourite shirt to steal, a thin, faded white v-neck that is too big on his frame.

 

 

“Hey babes, I made you breakfast-” Niall hums, turning around. He stops mid-sentence, robin's egg eyes wide staring at the gun clasped in Harry's hand.

 

 

Harry can smell the avocado and the eggs on the plate, but even more he can smell the fear radiating off of Niall in waves. The alarm is checked however, with a sense of trust, just barely there, but still _there,_ underneath—trust, small, fragile, like a heartbeat.

 

 

“Harry, what are you do-” Niall starts, but he never finishes his question because he's cut off by the bullet embedded in his chest where his heart sits, crimson blossoming across his—no _Harry's_ —shirt—and he's folding over like a piece of flimsy human origami, legs buckling down, kneecaps cracking against the floor. The plate clatters to the ground, mess of yolks painting the kitchen walls, messy shards of ceramic scattered everywhere.

 

 

Harry stands there, quaking, smoking gun hot in his hands, thunderous explosion ringing in his ears. He drops the weapon, and then runs immediately towards Niall, kneeling to the floor, hands reaching for Niall's face.

 

 

Niall's gold-fishing, mouth flopping open as it takes in ragged, hard breaths of air. Blood drips out down the side of his lips, colouring his ivory skin scarlet. His brows furrow down in confusion while blood wells up around his fingers where they're pressed against his chest. Niall looks up at him big, shiny baby blue eyes circles of shock as if to say _how could you?_

\-------x---------

Zayn comes and visits when Harry doesn't show up to headquarters for three days. Harry lets him in, the cannonball of remorse burning a hole through him. Niall stiffens, flattens up against the wall away from Zayn, and when Harry looks back for him, he's disappeared. He's been weaker, spottier lately, image fluorescing static under Harry's gaze, and he wonders how much he's forgetting.

 

 

“How are you holding up?” Zayn asks gruffly. He walks to the sitting room, brusquely, expression hard, and Harry follows him. 

 

 

Harry doesn't answer, just buries his head in his hands. He digs his fingers into his scalp, willing the ringing to disappear, trying to make himself better, but to no avail. He still sees things that aren't there, hears things that aren't there. He's gone mad, he realizes, but everything fake is real and nothing makes sense.

 

 

“I chewed out Louis. It was shit of him to say that to you.” Zayn slips his fingers together, and Harry realizes he looks nervous, out of place. Worry looks strange on Zayn, like clothes that fit too tight, like he might burst out of them any second.

 

 

“He... before he... the night before I killed him.” Harry manages, instead of responding to Zayn's statement. His voice cracks, splitting like a crystal glass thrown to the floor. “He told me, ' _I think I'm falling in love with you,_ ' and-”

 

 

“Harry.” Zayn's voice is gentle, and he doesn't make a motion to touch Harry, but Harry can see his fingers unravel to tap out a rhythm on his knee. “Harry, you don't have to-”

 

 

“I never told him I loved him.” Harry barrels on furiously, purposefully, swiping at his eyes because he's not _crying_ damn it, he doesn't _cry._ “He died making me breakfast, he died not knowing how I felt about him, he died—scared and betrayed and so fucking confused and _why_ didn't I tell him, Zayn? _Why?_ ” his eyes are empty, hollow, shiny with tears, and he implores Zayn, fingers folded over one another, searching for an answer. 

 

 

Zayn doesn't answer, so Harry lets himself cry.

 

 

He lets the torrent of tears flood out of him; his eyes are waterfalls, emotion falling in sheets colouring his cheeks red and blotchy. He grips his knee hard, squeezing, willing himself to feel something, but liking that he can't, because emotions are too _hard_ and too _wrong_ to coexist with his world.

 

 

Finally Zayn breaks the silence, and when he speaks, his voice is shaky, uncertain, in a way Harry's never heard him sound before. “You really loved him, didn't you?”

 

 

Harry nods, stubbornly, immediately, curls of hair obstructing his vision—or maybe it's his tears, he can't quite tell. He bites down hard on his fist, trying to hide the soft whimpers unfurling from his body.

 

 

“Fuck,” Zayn spits, and in one step, he's over next to Harry, a hand squeezing his shoulder. “I have... I have to tell you something, Harry.”

 

 

Harry glances up, vision swimming with tears. He doesn't know when he became so weak, so fragile, but then again he hasn't quite been himself since he met Niall.

 

 

Zayn looks at the floor, unwilling to meet Harry's gaze. He coughs, clearing his throat, and then in a low, gruff voice, barely asserts, “Niall didn't know what we did. Louis just wanted him killed.”

 

 

Zayn stands up, stretching as he leaves the room as though he's had a ton of bricks lifted off his conscience, and Harry feels his insides turn to ice.

\-------x---------

Louis is cutting onions when Harry walks into the kitchen. There's the thwack of the knife against the cutting board, and Louis's breathing is slightly haggard, eyes slightly wet as he swipes an arm across his eyes. The stench of raw onions fills the air, and Harry's nostrils flare.

 

 

“Hello Harry,” Louis greets him calmly, with a small wave over his shoulder. He flips up his impeccably styled hair and gives Harry a wolfish grin. “Want me to fix you a sandwich?”

 

 

“Zayn... Zayn told me you-” Harry deadpans, words garbled and nonsensical, voice strained—stretched impossibly thin. His arms held at his sides, disbelief written all over his face. “ _Did you?_ ” he finally decides, the words metallic and bitter in his mouth, like he's swallowed a gun.

 

 

Louis stiffens visibly, knife clutched in his hands, several pieces of onion still stuck on it. He wipes the knife on a dishtowel, before his ocean-coloured eyes set on Harry's face. 

 

 

“Zayn told you?” he asks slowly, his voice impossibly detached, calculating, eyes steely, and Harry knows it's true. 

 

 

“Why'd you do it?” Harry finally finds his voice, and he can feel himself shaking with hysteria. The flimsy house of cards they've built around him has come crashing down, and he's barreling through, truth hitting him in the face like a sledgehammer. “You told me that he'd infiltrated our system! You told me he was a security threat when he didn't know a single _fucking_ thing about what we did!” His voice crescendos, building and arching upwards, and he's _furious._ “How _could_ you do that—why, why, _why_ did you do it? Why did you do it Louis? Just tell me why _him,_ Louis? _Why?_ ”

 

 

“You don't get it, do you?” Louis retorts, suddenly dangerously close to Harry, kitchen knife still in his hand. His chest is pressed against Harry's now, and Harry can feel the ridges, feel the angles of Louis's body, can taste the danger painting Louis's tongue, the heat of Louis's breath against his cheeks.

 

 

Harry opens his mouth to reply, but the words get lost as Louis beats him to the chase.

 

 

“I'm in _love_ with you!” spits Louis, ferocity lining his voice, coursing through every fiber of his body, and Harry can practically taste the venom in the air between them. “I'm in _love_ with you and you never took a goddam second to notice me because it was always _Niall!_ What the fuck was so great about Niall anyways? He didn't love you the way _I_ do, he was weak! He had too many emotions—he was naïve and stupid and I love you! _I_ deserve you, not him, _I_ do! _I deserve you!_ ”

 

 

Harry freezes, letting the force of Louis's confession hit him square in the chest, prying and clawing into his heart. He closes his eyes when Louis kisses him, pushes him up against the wall, every movement feverish and needy. Louis shoves his tongue into Harry's mouth, bites his bottom lip, hums and keens with desperation, eyes shut so he can pretend Harry wants him just as badly.

 

 

Harry shoves Louis roughly off of him onto the floor. He swipes at his mouth with his sleeve, brushing off the taste of Louis, so _wrong._

 

 

Louis is rambling now, curled up on the floor as though he's a child throwing a tantrum. His eyes are crazed, and his fingers clutch so hard around the handle of the kitchen knife that his knuckles are white. 

 

 

“ _I_ deserve you,” he screams, rampant, repetitive.

 

 

Harry thinks for a second, closes his eyes and lets himself breathe. He thinks about how easy it would be to love Louis—Louis who worships him, Louis who understands his lifestyle, Louis who works with him and sees him every day and who can watch his back. Louis who knows how he likes his sandwiches with only a slight smear of mayonnaise, Louis who's good-looking with clear skin and stormy eyes and a raucous laugh. 

 

 

But Louis doesn't fit. He doesn't have bright, blazing eyes the colour of the sky, a voice rouged with accent, a small waist and crooked teeth and the ability to make Harry feel _alive._ Niall set Harry on fire, made him feel things he'd never felt before, made him swear he'd be a better person. Niall made him question everything he believed in, ripping it out from under his feet to make him fall headfirst, but at the same time extending a hand to help lift Harry back up. Niall lured him into the dangerous thoughts of dependency, of a simple life that involved lazy mornings, limbs entwined, breathy giggles, only needing to breathe in one another's exhales to survive.

 

 

Harry turns on his heels and leaves, and he pretends he can't hear Louis sobbing, still hunched over on the floor of the kitchen behind him.

\-------x---------

Harry and Niall should not have met, let alone fallen in love.

 

 

Louis likes to play with his victims, break them into smithereens just to prove that he can do it. Louis is power-hungry, dangerous, but damn good at what he does. Zayn is the artist, who embellishes his killings like he's writing a novel, scripts them like they're movies worthy of being shown in the cinemas. Zayn leaves his signature on his killings like they're paintings.

 

 

And Harry... well, Harry is introspective.

 

 

He doesn't quite understand why himself, but he goes to the funeral held for every one of his targets. The funerals that he causes, maybe to look at the flowers, the scent of fragile roses. To see the display set out—sometimes the target's family is rich, and the church is full of sobbing, mourning messes, other times it's quiet, empty, and Harry is one of five people. There's something satisfying about watching the casket containing the corpse he manifested lowered into the ground to be buried under shovels of dirt. Something reassuring, a pat on his back maybe saying, _job well done._

 

 

Harry meets Niall at Josh Devine's funeral.

 

 

Josh Devine is a relatively straightforward case. He's a pleasant-looking bloke, sandy brown hair, easily styled, unfortunate piercings in each of his ears. Thick eyebrows, solid frame, friendly-looking guy. At least that's what Harry thinks when he empties the bullet into Josh's skull.

 

 

_Suicide_ , come the hushed whispers at the funeral. _Can you believe it? He committed suicide._

 

 

Harry's known of course. He's known all along that Josh was struggling with depression, seeing countless therapists. He's seen the prescription medications that fill Josh's bathroom cabinet, the little orange bottles and the circular and rod-shaped blue and red and white pills. He's known Josh was going mad... slowly, seeing things that weren't there, being threatened by things that others couldn't see.

 

 

Harry knows because he planted them all himself. 

 

 

He pushes Josh to the brink of insanity, and when he finally takes Josh's life, Josh is almost relieved.

 

 

He thinks about this, standing at the grave after the crowd has left. The dirt is crumpled underneath his feet, grass not quite rooted at the handsome, polished black headstone. _My finest work_ , he thinks. No one has suspected a thing.

 

 

And that's when he glances up and sees him.

 

 

A thin blade of a man, skin the colour of cream, hair spun of gold, black peacoat tucked around his waist. He's trembling, shivering, and he looks like the type of person who might just blow away if someone yells at him. His stunningly cerulean eyes are hollow with misery, encased in red-rimmed eyelids, nose pink and cheeks red and blotchy with grief.

 

 

He isn't attractive at first glance. Not in the slightest. He's an ugly crier, Harry reasons, watching as hoarse, full sobs rack his body. He's not delicate, soft in the way that some girls are. The man is too thin for Harry's tastes, too scrawny, too youthful and innocent looking. Harry's type is angry, betrayed, vengeful because it makes for great sex and emotional detachment. But Harry thinks the man will do—sufficient for a night of fleeting touches, desperate kisses—everything moving too fast, too hazy, so that in the morning when the man wakes up, Harry will be gone.

 

 

“He a friend of yours?” he asks gently, tilting his head, tossing his curly locks of hair and using his forest green eyes to project concern.

 

 

The man looks a bit taken aback, and he stammers for a moment, mouth curving into a perfect _o_ before letting out a weak, shuddery breath that shakes his entire body. “Best friend,” he whispers, bottom lip wobbling precariously as though it might fall off his face. “What about you?”

 

 

The voice is unexpectedly rich, accented, even as it quakes with the weight of suffering it holds. Harry lets himself bathe in it, thinks of how good it might sound when the man is under him, Harry thrusting into him erratic and uncontrolled.

 

 

“Childhood mates,” Harry offers, extending a hand. “My name's Harry.”

 

 

“Niall,” the man responds, struggling to turn his mouth into a smile. He fails miserably, revealing crooked teeth, chapped pink lips. “'M sorry,” he says, voice hoarse and shaded with sorrow. “It's just... hard, y' know?”

 

 

Harry moves his hand to the man's shoulder, running his fingers slowly up Niall's arm. “Yeah, I know how you feel,” he answers, trying to sound grim.

 

 

“I... I'm just really gonna miss him. Josh was the best mate a guy could ever ask for.” Niall's eyes tighten, and Harry watches a big, silvery tear slide down his cheek. “We had a good run, but... I just didn't see it coming at all.”

 

 

“Shh, it's okay,” Harry croons softly, insides churning with triumph because he's gotten under Niall's skin, he's lured him in and trapped him. “We just need time.”

 

 

“Yeah,” Niall glances up imploringly at him now, biting a plump bottom lip idly. “I... I just... he just was a good guy—you probably know what I mean,” Harry nods, “a-and I just want someone to know how great he was.”

 

 

“Well Niall,” Harry actually smiles, feigning gentle empathy, uncharacteristic sweetness. “How about I take you out for some coffee and we talk about it?”

\-------x---------

Niall is supposed to be a quick fuck, a one-night-stand, a nameless nobody Harry might kill the next morning if he's asked to stay. Niall is supposed to be easy, vulnerable, another one of Harry's targets, another sexual conquest.

 

 

They don't fuck that first night when Niall asks him if he'd like to come in, eyes shy and face bashful, flushed pink all over his body.

 

 

Instead Niall cries when Harry leans forward impulsively and kisses him, finger-pads ghosting on milky skin. Niall cries and shifts into Harry's lap and hooks his damp chin onto Harry's shoulder. Niall whispers that he's _sorry_ over and over again, and Harry doesn't tell him it's okay. Niall strips himself bare, no reservations, no self-consciousness. He gives himself to Harry without giving anything at all, and Harry doesn't quite know what to do with himself.

 

 

Part of him wants to snap Niall's neck with his bare hands, but the other part is overwhelmed with the inexplicable feeling of guilt. He wants to fix Niall, but he only knows how to break things. He wants to take the littered pieces of glass that Niall's become and glue him into something beautiful, but he's the one who broke Niall in the first place.

 

 

They fall asleep together, both fully clothed, limbs entwined, the night broken only by Niall's occasional sniffles and by Harry trying as hard as he can to kiss the pain away. 

 

 

And in the morning, Harry stays.

\-------x---------

He tries not to fall in love with Niall, he really does.

 

 

He fights it with every fiber in his body, telling himself that he'll stop this, he'll leave the next day, that there's nothing, absolutely _nothing_ , special about Niall. He tells himself he can get over this—that it's a fluke, that he can force himself not to feel because feelings aren't allowed, they're too hard.

 

 

Loving Niall is like setting himself on fire. Every touch sets a spark coiling through his body, grappling at his insides. Niall spills himself across Harry's skin, a ripple of spirit Harry can't keep up with. Niall's laugh fills his stomach with something warm, and it's dangerous, he knows. He can see Zayn's worried gaze, feel Louis's eyes following his every movement. He can feel himself slipping up, challenging things he's always accepted.

 

 

But in the end, he and Niall are like weeds. They grow in towards one another, entwining and choking one another, until they're so entangled that they don't know how to be apart. He and Niall are like weeds, and he lives with the knowledge that any second someone might come and uproot him, throwing him away and killing him—that no matter how much he wants it, none of this is real.

\-------x---------

Harry wakes up alone.

 

 

He wonders what it would be like to kill himself, to slip a noose around his neck, to hold a gun to his temple. How wonderful it would feel to stop feeling, how nice it would be to get ahold of his unchecked emotions, stuff them into a glass bottle and bury it.

 

 

How powerful he'd feel if he stopped seeing things that don't exist—like white-blonde hair, skin the colour of snow, green snapbacks, cornflower eyes framed with dark lashes. How invincible he'd be if he stopped being haunted by a rogue laugh, quiet humming, the strumming of a non-existent guitar—sounds running so close together, so unfamiliar, that they leave his ears ringing.

 

 

There's still an agenda that needs to be filled though, a list of items that needs to be checked off, things to be done.

 

 

So for now, Harry wakes up alone.

\-------x---------

The first time they make love is in the same kitchen where Niall dies.

 

 

Niall is strewn across the countertop, trousers and boxers pooled on the floor of the kitchen, his t-shirt torn, taut, pale stomach fluid and inviting under Harry's gaze. He giggles when Harry sucks at his neck, keening, insistent, a bright, bare canvas inviting Harry to mark him. He trails his fingers uncertainly down Harry's side, vulnerable, spread wide open. He closes his eyes when Harry kisses him, soft lips silky, so unexpectedly careful.

 

 

Harry above him, fingers pressed gently under Niall's chin as he carefully guides himself in, surrounding himself in hot, warm velvet. He revels in every gasp and moan Niall makes, eyes glued on the way dark eyelashes flutter in ecstasy. He's acutely aware of the dust of freckles on Niall's nose, his thin, wiry arms, the way his creamy thighs tremble when Harry breaches him. He watches Niall come undone under his fingertips, tiny whimpers fluttering in his throat.

 

 

Afterwards they lay breathless on the tiled kitchen floor, faces smashed against one another's. Niall reaches up, almost shyly, to tuck a curl of Harry's hair behind his ear. His voice is breathless, strained, and Harry pockets every noise, scrawls down the “ _I like you,_ ” the “ _That was fun,_ ” and wonders to himself how “ _I love you_ ” might sound in Niall's voice.

 

 

He kills Niall in the kitchen where they make love for the first time, and he remembers it clearly now—every moment reeling on a movie screen in front of him on infinite replay. He curls up on the floor next to Niall's limp, still warm body, taking in the sound of Niall's small, struggling gasps of air. He presses his fingers, hard, insistent, on soft skin to soak in the blood irradiating outwards from Niall's heart. He kisses Niall's lips, tastes copper and crimson on his tongue, mixing with the salt of his own tears. He slips his arms under Niall's armpits, spoons the lifeless frame, long after Niall is gone.

 

 

And when he tries hard enough, he convinces himself Niall is only sleeping and he'll wake up any second.

\-------x---------

Louis sings when he's cooking.

 

 

Harry studies his back, notes the muscle rippling underneath his black t-shirt as he pours olive oil into a pan and sautes vegetables in a pan. Louis is singing, voice breathy and higher-pitched than expected. Almost palliative, but Harry feels something sickly, unpleasant crawl under his skin.

 

 

Niall sings when he's cooking too. Niall wakes Harry up in the mornings belting lyrics in Spanish, the language unfurling on his tongue as though he's a native. Niall loves music, says he could swim in it, let it wash over him like an ocean. 

 

 

But Niall's been silenced, and here's Louis, and Louis shouldn't be allowed to sing.

 

 

Harry watches, completely silent, as Louis turns off the stove, every movement steady and calm.

 

 

“Are you just going to stand there, or are you going to kill me?” Louis's voice is resigned, steady, with a touch of coyness that only Louis could pull off given the circumstances.

 

 

Harry's fingers grip hard around his gun, his heart beating erratically in his chest as Louis turns to face him.

 

 

“I knew you were coming for me,” Louis says, tilting his head. A clump of cinnamon-colored hair falls into his tempestuous eyes, and he flips it up with his fingers.

 

 

“How?” Harry unglues the word from his throat, eyes trained on every one of Louis's motions from the clench of his jaw to the way he brings his hands to his side.

 

 

“Harry,” Louis tuts, sounding almost impatient. “Harry, Harry, Harry.” He's bordering on needy now, desperate, and he starts forward.

 

 

Harry hears every one of Louis's steps across the hardwood floor as Louis moves closer, closer, until they're face to face. Louis's irises are blown wide, manic, and Harry takes a step back. Louis glues his eyes to the floor, and Harry can barely hear him when he starts talking.

 

 

“I was afraid when you said you wanted to stop and move on.” Louis sounds embarrassed, hurt, and Harry's unnerved because this isn't crazy Louis—this isn't sadistic, malicious Louis who he's used to. “I was afraid of you leaving. I _love-_ ”

 

 

And then Louis stops because a mouth of a gun is angled at the base of his chin.

 

 

Harry's trembling, quaking, fingers tilting the gun harder into Louis's skin, because _I love you_ belongs to Niall.

 

 

Louis closes his eyes, and Harry can see the vein in his forehead twitching. “It's been good knowing you, Harry.”

\-------x---------

A gun is fired.

\-------x---------

“You shouldn't have done that, you know,” Zayn says, his voice almost infuriatingly steady, calm, as he steps carefully over Louis. He glances down at Louis's mutilated body, takes in how Louis's face is nearly unrecognizable, his nose disfigured and essentially blown clear off his face, his tawny hair frayed and matted to his forehead with blood. There are fragments of his skull sticking to the sides of the kitchen cabinet, blood pooling on the tile, crimson like the Red Sea. “But I get why you did.”

 

 

Harry clutches the gun in his hand. It's still heavy and warm from when he fired it right into Louis's unwavering face. His body is folded like a pretzel, knees bent and elbows resting hard on them as he swallows, body trembling with exertion.

 

 

“I don't,” Harry starts, and then stops when his voice cracks, shattering in his throat. His lip wobbles precariously, and he drops the offending black weapon on the floor, watches as it skitters across the tile. “Zayn, I... Christ, I... I think I l- _loved_ him and I think he loved me, and I... Lou... he _killed_ him... and fuck, I-” he coughs hoarsely, wet, looking helplessly up at Zayn.

 

 

Zayn picks up the gun, slips his fingers around the handle, spinning it with the bravado they've always been trained not to do. Showiness makes them careless, and carelessness causes mistakes, and they can't afford them. But then again, they've made enough mistakes to put the whole company to shame in the past two months, and Zayn's beyond caring.

 

 

“Louis was the closest thing I had to a friend, you know,” Zayn starts, shaking his head almost disbelievingly as he glances at Louis's body. But Harry thinks how could he _not_ have expected this? Zayn knew what he was doing, knew he was burying Louis when he opened his mouth and decided to release the bird of truth, which had been trapped and caged in secrets. “But you are too, Harry. You're... the only other person I'd consider my friend too.”

 

 

Harry heaves, stomach caving in, and for a second, he thinks he might vomit. Zayn's never said anything like this—anything that harbors emotion beyond the immediate loyalty and inherent respect commanded of them—in all the years he's worked with him. He thinks fleetingly of how many eggs Zayn's fried up in the mornings for him, how many wounds Zayn has tended when he's been injured, how he was the only one who didn't push him to start working again before he was ready. How Zayn was the only one who never said anything bad about Niall.

 

 

Zayn gets down to his level, dark jeans pressed against the floor, fingers still wrapped around the gun. He presses the mouth of the gun to Harry's chest, free hand clinging to Harry's bony shoulder, and all Harry can focus on is the dark line of eyelashes that fringes over Zayn's face, over his cheekbones.

 

 

“Make it fast, yeah?” Harry whispers, body weak and trembling. He's so _tired_ , and all he wants to do is ball himself up and sleep for the next millenia. There's anxiety and hysteria coursing through his veins and his mind is bashing up against the sides of his skull, roaring and screaming to escape. Harry stares down at his own body, notices how Louis's blood has seeped through the knees of his trousers, coloured his hands with rust. His fingers twitch involuntarily, and he glances up at Zayn, eyes bloodshot and weary.

 

 

Zayn looks at him, mouth tied in a grim line, but eyes uncharacteristically gentle. “Yeah, Harry. For you, I will.”

\-------x---------

Zayn balls up his left hand in the pocket of his jacket while he cradles a lit fag in his right. He's drained, eyes lined with lack of sleep, exhaustion painting the canvas of his face, and he looks down at the line of the waves meeting the shore, over and over from where he stands on his balcony. He tries to convince himself that some things, at least, endure.

 

 

He almost thinks he can see Harry below, barefoot as he walks in the sand, curly hair tossed in the wind, mouth curved in a hitched smile, light in his green eyes which are soft in a way Zayn hasn't seen them look before. Before Harry is a blonde boy, hair and soul ablaze as he nearly glows, azure eyes glittering like crystals in the sunlight. As Zayn watches, Harry starts after Niall, hand extended as though he's unsteady and unsure on his feet. Niall's fingers link into Harry's in a wordless answer, croqueting around the back of Harry's hands, in a way so intimate, so lovely and secretive, that Zayn feels like an intruder.

 

 

Zayn watches them, the two figures making their way off together down the beach, Niall's head resting on Harry's shoulder, Harry's hand on the small of Niall's back like it belongs. He convinces himself he sees the footprints they make in the wet sand before they recede into the distance, hands intertwined as though they've never been apart.

 

 

He gets up then, walks back into his house where Harry's body is discarded on the ground, folded over and limp like a dead kitten, his chest still open and covered in blood where Zayn shot him through the heart. There's something like a smile on Harry's face, dripping sallowly off his lips, and he looks almost peaceful, years younger, awash with the spirit that was perhaps stolen from him. 

 

 

Zayn lights another fag as he stares down at the body, and in the dim light of the room, his expression holds something like _I'm sorry_ or _I hope you're happy._


End file.
